


manage me (i'm a mess)

by alotofthingsdifferent



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5028076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/pseuds/alotofthingsdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brent's never been the type to hang around in one place for too long. He's spent his life running away, lost and wandering, trying to find the one place that feels like home. When he finally reaches the end of his rope, he finds himself on Jonny’s doorstep, and it's like being transported back in time. Jonny's everything familiar, and falling back into a friendship with him is easier than it probably should be. When Brent’s hit hard by his own feelings, will he stay, or will he take the easy way out and run again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	manage me (i'm a mess)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hockey Big Bang 2015.
> 
> This fic never would have happened without the help of Jay, who encouraged me to keep it even when it started out as a different pairing and I had to change it, and listened to me whine and complain and despair for months every time I got stuck. Thank you, thank you, thank you, babe!
> 
> Title from All Time Low's "Weightless".
> 
> Make sure you listen to the [fabulous mix](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5033140/chapters/11569369) thosesamestarsx made to go along with this!

“I know what you’re planning, you know,” Jonny says, and they’ve been sitting in silence for so long that Brent startles at the sound of his voice in the darkness. The hood of his car has long gone cool since they spread the blanket over it and got comfortable, elbows touching and staring at the sky. 

“That sounds ominous, J,” Brent says, trying to keep his voice void of any emotion. Jonny knocks their knees together and doesn’t look at him.

“I know you’re skipping town after graduation,” he says, and Brent blows out a breath. “I don’t know why you always have to--”

“Stop, Jonny,” he interrupts. “I can’t hang around here forever, you know that. You’re-- “ _the only thing keeping me here_ , he thinks. “You’re graduating in three days, kid, and you’ve got a big summer ahead of you. I’m just a distraction you don’t need.”

“That’s not true,” Jonny snaps, and he sits up so suddenly that Brent has to grab his arm to keep him from slipping off the car. “You’re my best friend.”

Brent scowls and rolls his eyes. “I’m a high school dropout with a dead-end job and a drinking problem,” he says, and he puts a hand up before Jonny can argue. It’s mostly true, anyway. He _does_ drink more than he should, so it’s not as far from the truth as it could be. “You’re better than that.” 

“Just stay for the summer,” Jonny pleads. “Just for the summer, Brent, _please_.”

Brent slides down the hood and stands with his back facing Jonny, his shoulders tense and his jaw clenched. “I’m leaving, Jon, and that’s that.”

“Brent,” Jonny says quietly, and Brent turns to look over his shoulder, meeting Jonny’s eyes. “I love you.”

The night Brent’s dad left, Jonny found him sitting under the monkey bars at the old playground down the road, drinking from a bottle hidden in a brown paper bag. Jonny was only 13, three years younger than Brent, but for some reason, he was exactly who Brent needed right then. Someone who wasn’t judging him for his reactions, for drinking or for running away or for the fat tears that wouldn’t stop spilling from his eyes. Jonny just sat down next to him and let him talk, let him say everything he was feeling without fear of being told he was stupid or wrong, without telling him everything was going to be ok.

“You deserve better than that,” Jonny told him firmly, and the words ring in Brent’s ears even now, when he’s ignoring the voice in his head telling him this is a bad idea, that Jonny is off limits. Jonny has _always_ been off limits.

Still, he finds himself approaching the car again, wrapping a hand around one of Jonny’s ankles and tugging until Jonny’s just barely sitting on the edge of the hood, his legs dangling in a vee that Brent moves between. He slides his hands up Jonny’s thighs, rough, and presses his thumbs into the cuts of Jonny’s hips, just beneath the hem of his shirt. 

Jonny’s eyes are wide when Brent leans in and kisses him. 

Jonny deserves better than this, deserves better than having Brent strip him out of his clothes and turn him around, drop to his knees and bite the backs of Jonny’s thighs hard enough to leave marks that will not soon fade. Jonny’s whimpering softly, pushing back against Brent’s mouth, his fingers splayed wide over the hood of Brent’s car. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Brent mumbles against the dip of Jonny’s back, his fingertips digging into the meaty flesh of Jonny’s ass. He slips his fingers between Jonny’s cheeks, drags them over his hole, and Jonny sucks in a sharp breath, his head dropping. “What _do_ you want, Jonny?”

“You,” Jonny manages, and Brent’s already working his belt open. “Please, Brent, I want --” The words die in his throat when Brent slides his dick along the crease of his ass. 

Brent leans in, blankets Jonny’s body with his own. He shivers when Brent’s hands move over his ribs, and Brent bites at at the join of his neck and shoulder. “You ever done this before?” he asks, rocking his hips so there’s no confusion about what he’s asking here.

Jonny shakes his head quickly, clawing at the hood of the car like he’s trying to dig his way to the engine beneath it. 

Brent knows this is a bad idea. He’s reminded of it when the gravel presses sharply into the skin on his knees as he spreads Jonny’s cheeks with his hands and flicks his tongue over Jonny’s hole. Jonny cries out, and there’s a soft thud that Brent thinks must be his fist hitting the hood. 

By the time Brent finally gets to his feet, there are tiny rocks stuck to his skin and his dick is throbbing between his legs. Jonny’s panting, his arms shaking where he’s holding himself up. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his temples, and his eyes are closed. Brent should stop it now, should reach around and jerk Jonny off, get in his car and forget this ever happened.

Instead, he presses his fingertips to Jonny’s hole, wet and loose from his tongue, and eases one inside. Jonny whimpers, his thighs going tense, but Brent doesn’t stop. He doesn’t _want_ to stop, and if the way Jonny’s pushing back against him is any indication, it’s not what he wants either. 

“Gonna fuck you so good, Jon,” Brent whispers against Jonny’s ear as he tugs at Jonny’s rim, fucking him with two fingers now. “Is that what you want? Huh? You want my dick in you?”

Jonny nods quickly, and Brent’s heart hammers in his chest. He pulls his fingers out quickly, and Jonny makes a questioning sound when Brent moves away. He stays where he is, though, bent over the hood of the car, his legs spread wide and his body flushed red with arousal. Brent forces himself to look away before he starts getting a conscience. 

He opens the passenger-side door and ducks inside, rummaging through the glove box until he finds what he’s looking for. If Jonny wonders why he has lube and condoms in his car, he doesn’t ask, and Brent’s grateful, at least, for that. 

“Jesus,” Brent groans against the back of Jonny’s neck, his hips flush with Jonny’s ass. Jonny’s gone rigid, his shoulders tense and his breath coming in shallow pants. He’s tight and hot around Brent’s dick, and Brent finds himself wishing, fleetingly, that they’d done this long before tonight. He shakes his head quickly to rid himself of the thought and starts moving, fucking Jonny in short, sharp thrusts that draw soft cries from Jonny. 

“Jonny,” he says into Jonny’s hair, and he turns his head, the wetness leaking from the corners of his eyes catching on Brent’s lips. 

They kiss sloppily, just a wet slide of lips, and Jonny gasps when Brent reaches round to jerk him off. He comes almost as soon as Brent touches him, clenching tight around Brent’s dick as he spills over Brent’s hand. Brent pulls away, his chest no longer flush with Jonny’s back, and grips his hips tightly, fucking into him harder, so close to the edge he can almost taste it. Jonny falls forward on his elbows, his cheek pressed to the car, and Brent squeezes his eyes shut as he comes, still buried in Jonny’s ass. 

He catches his breath and pulls out roughly, ignoring the way Jonny whimpers, and gets rid of the condom before bending over to pull his pants on. He’s still wearing his shirt, and he’s hit with a sudden wave of guilt over how impersonal this all was. Jonny’s still standing over the car, head hanging, his legs trembling just enough that Brent notices. 

“Get dressed,” Brent says. “I’ll take you home."

He watches Jonny in the rear-view as he gets smaller and smaller, standing at the end of his driveway with his hands hanging loosely at his sides. 

"Hey," he'd said, his fingers touching Brent's wrist where it rested on the stick shift. The ride home had been silent up to that point, and Brent wished it had stayed that way. "I'm glad it was you," Jonny said, and brushed his lips to Brent's cheek before getting out of the car.

Brent grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles go white and takes one last look in the mirror before hanging a right.

His departure just got moved up by a week. 

\--

It’s late when Brent pulls into his mother’s driveway after his last shift of the week. It’s a shitty job, loading packages into UPS trucks and unloading the full ones that arrive, but it’s something, and at this point, every little bit he can make to help his mom is worth it. She’d been through enough when his dad left -- he wasn’t about to let her lose her house on top of it. 

It’s only when he’s halfway to the front door that he notices an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway next door. He turns, squints in the dark, and his stomach drops when he realizes that the car isn’t unfamiliar at all.

That’s Jonny’s car, and even though he hasn’t seen it for four years, he’d know it anywhere. The UND Hockey sticker is still stuck to the bumper of the old Buick, faded and peeling at the edges, and an old pair of not-so-fuzzy dice dangles from the rearview mirror. 

It’s like nothing’s changed, except everything has. 

He panics suddenly, his palms sweating, and it’s ridiculous, he thinks, to be getting so worked up over a beat-up car sitting in a driveway. It’s just Jonny, after all, just a kid who had a crush on him back before he knew any better. 

“Long time no see, huh, Seabs?” Jonny’s voice carries across the quiet lawn from the front porch of his parents’ house. Brent had been so busy panicking that he hadn’t noticed Jonny sitting on the porch swing. He can just make him out in the dark, long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He’s taller, maybe, and definitely broader in the shoulders, and when he pushes off the swing and stands up, Brent’s stomach swoops.

“Didn’t expect to see you back here,” Jonny says, his voice leading the way as he crosses the driveway. 

“Didn’t expect to be here,” Brent admits, but he leaves it at that. He hasn’t seen Jonny in four years, and he doesn’t want to start their first conversation since then with yet another sad tale of the paths his life has lead him down. “What’s new?”

It’s a ridiculous question, and they both know it, but Jonny smiles anyway, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m only here for a week,” he says. “Just graduated, took a job in California. Spending some time with my family before I take off.”

“California, huh?” Brent says with a snort. “You gonna be a yoga instructor?” It’s a stupid thing to say, but Brent doesn’t care. This all feels too comfortable, too familiar, and he has to get some semblance of a grip on the situation before he loses control and forgets why being in Jonathan Toews’ life was always a bad idea.

“I’m going into law, actually. This is a good gig, though, I’ll learn a lot. It’s a foot in the door, so.”

“Good for you, kid,” Brent says, and he means it even if the edge in his voice says otherwise. “Maybe I’ll give you a call the next time I need to be bailed out of jail.” It’s not out of the question -- he’s had more than a handful of run-ins with the law in the four years since he left this town, and while none of them were enough to get him into too much trouble, his rap sheet is pretty impressive. Jonny frowns at him and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“So why are you back?” he asks, and Brent shakes his head, takes two steps backwards. 

“Not tonight, Jonny,” he says, and turns on his heel, taking long strides towards the house. “Maybe not ever,” he says over his shoulder. “See ya.”

He leaves Jonny standing at the end of the driveway and tries not to think about the last time he stood in that very spot. 

**

Brent runs into Jonny again the next afternoon, when he’s ducked under the hood of his car changing the oil. 

“I didn’t realize it was the same,” Jonny says, and Brent startles, knocking the back of his head on the sharp edge of the hood.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, rubbing at the sore spot, and glares when Jonny starts laughing. 

“Last night, I mean. I didn’t realize you’re still driving this car.”

Brent blinks, deliberately avoiding eye contact. “You’re still driving the same beat-up Buick,” Brent points out, nodding towards Jonny’s own car, just a few feet away. 

“Yeah, but I was a poor college student,” Jonny says. ”I couldn’t afford anything else,” and Brent scoffs, slamming the hood down. 

“And I was just rolling in the dough, Jon, wasn’t I?” he says, bitter, and Jonny puts his hands up in defense. 

“I didn’t mean --”

“Whatever,” Brent says, waving him off. “Did you need something?”

“I thought, uh. Would you wanna grab a beer later? Catch up?” He’s fidgeting, both hands tucked in the back pockets of his jeans, and Brent wishes it wasn’t so easy for the memories from that night to resurface, faded snapshots in his mind of Jonny spread out on the hood of the car, his skin slick with sweat under Brent’s hands.

“I’ve got stuff to do,” he lies, turning his back and crouching down in front of the car to clean up his mess. “And I work later.”

“Brent,” Jonny says, and Brent sighs, his head dropping in frustration. He stands, rolls his shoulders, and turns to face Jonny. “C’mon. “

He clenches his jaw reflexively and ignores the nagging voice in the back of his head chanting “don’t do it”. 

“I’m off at ten,” he says. “Meet me at Jay’s.”

Jonny fights a smile, and Brent fights the urge to wipe it off his face.

**

It’s near eleven when he finally ambles into the bar after his shift. He recognizes Jonny by the tattered UND hat turned backwards on his head, his worn white t-shirt hugging the long lines of muscle in his back. He’s leaning in close to the bar, his elbows out on either side of him, and Brent has a split-second of reconsideration where he almost turns around and runs out. 

HIs feet are carrying him forward, though, and he drops onto the stool next to Jonny, their arms brushing as he settles in. He doesn’t deserve the smile Jonny gives him, and his stomach twists at the relief he sees in Jonny’s eyes. 

“You came,” he says, and Brent doesn’t look at him, just nods twice and waves down the bartender. 

An hour later, they’ve barely spoken, and Brent’s downed more beers than he intended to. In his defense, Jonny’s ordering them at the same pace, and now he’s leaning against Brent’s shoulder, a warm pressure that has Brent’s mind wandering to places it has no right to go.

“I can’t believe college is over,” Jonny says, dragging a drop of water across the bar with one fingertip. “I can’t believe I’m going to _California_.”

Brent shoves at him a little, jostles him enough that he sits up straight, leaving just a breath of space between them. “I should go,” he says suddenly, and Jonny turns his head to the right, his lips parting like he’s going to object. Before he can get the words out, Brent shakes his head. “I probably shouldn’t have come in the first place.”

“Why do you do that?” Jonny snaps, and Brent leans away from him, one eyebrow arched in surprise. “Why can’t you talk to me? We were friends once, you know. Or did you forget that too? Like you forgot about me.” 

Brent stares at him for a long moment before shaking his head, a sad laugh stuck in his throat. “Jesus, Jon, you -- trust me. I did _not_ forget about you.”

It’s the exact opposite, Brent thinks, but Jonny wouldn’t know that. 

Jonny wouldn’t know about the nights Brent got so falling-down drunk that he dialed Jonny’s old number and hung up whenever Andree or Bryan answered, or about the one time he didn’t, when Andree told him that Jonny was doing well and asked, with pity in her voice, if Brent needed help.

He wouldn’t know that Brent didn’t call again after that. 

Brent had always known he wasn’t good enough for Jonny, even when they were nothing more than kids kicking rocks around after school, leaning against buildings and acting tough. “You belong with the smart kids,” Brent would tell him, and Jonny would just roll his eyes and punch Brent in the shoulder.

“They’re boring,” he’d say, “and anyway, you’re smarter than you let on. You just wanna be cool, that’s all.”

It didn’t matter, in the end, if Brent could have made the honor roll or not. Maybe he’d have gone to college, gotten a degree in mathematics or teaching, maybe he’d have become a doctor. It didn’t matter, because Brent’s dad left, and Brent dropped out of school and got a job at the car wash so they could keep food on the table and the electricity on. 

Jonny’s staring at him, his lower lip pulled tight between his teeth, and Brent huffs out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it pack out of his face. “C’mon,” he says, resigned. Jonny shouldn’t be driving -- neither of them should, really -- and the walk home will be easier if he’s not alone. “I’ll walk you home.”

**

They make it as far as the worn-down playground a few blocks from home when Jonny says, “I meant it, you know.” He sways into Brent, their shoulders touching, and Brent doesn’t know if it’s intentional or not, if Jonny’s trying to get close to him or if the alcohol is making him stumble. Either way, he’s warm at Brent’s side, and even after four years apart, Brent still remembers everything about the way Jonny looked at him that night. It’s setting him off his own game, making his head spin with memories that he’s tried for a long time to flush out. 

“Meant what?” Brent asks, even though he doesn’t have to. He knows where this is going. The brush of Jonny’s knuckles against the back of his hand tells him everything.

Jonny stops walking forward and veers off to the side, and Brent follows him to the playground, watching as Jonny tries to fit himself into the seat of one of the two crooked swings dangling from the swingset. He looks ridiculous, all 6-plus feet of him crammed between two skinny chains, and when he raises his eyes to meet Brent’s, Brent feels a pang of regret over the way their friendship ended.

“Meant what, Jon?” Brent asks again, even though he knows he should just leave it alone. Jonny digs his heels into the damp woodchips beneath his feet and pushes back, swinging forward when he lifts his feet. He digs his heels in again, stopping himself, and stares at his lap. 

“I loved you.”

Brent’s shoulders slump and he trudges forward, squeezing into the swing next to Jonny. “C’mon, Jonny, you were just a kid. You didn’t know what you were saying.”

The buzz of the half-lit streetlamp behind them is the only sound for long seconds. Jonny clenches his jaw and tightens his grip on the chains of the swing. “I spent the last four years sleeping with guys who weren’t you, Brent. They looked like you, all of them. They looked liked you and they dressed like you and they _smiled_ like you, but it wasn’t the same.”

“Jonny --”

“I spent the last four years trying to get over you, so don’t tell me how I felt.” He looks at Brent then, and Brent’s heart pounds in his ears when their eyes meet. “Don’t tell me how I _feel_.”

Brent's carried around a heavy guilt since that night back when Jonny was eighteen and thought confessing his “love” would make Brent stay. But he's not about to apologize now, can't let Jonny think he has any chance at all, not when Brent’s two seconds away from hauling him in and never letting go. "Hey, Jon," he says instead. "Don't blame me for the shit you’ve done. I was just giving you want you wanted.” He pushes up from the swing and walks towards the sidewalk, stopping to look over his shoulder when Jonny calls his name. “I’ll see ya, kid. Be good in California.”

Jonny's face falls, and another brick is added to the wall around Brent’s heart.

**

Jonny’s leaning against the passenger door of Brent’s car the next day when Brent’s leaving for work. It’s early enough that the dew on the grass is still sparkling in the morning sunlight, and when Jonny pushes off the car and takes two steps towards him, Brent’s throat closes up. 

“My mom told me your mom lost her job,” Jonny says, quiet, and Brent shifts his weight, crossing his arms defensively. His keys dig into the palm of his hand, and he meets Jonny’s eyes. “So that’s why you’re back?”

Brent shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant. “She would’ve lost the house,” he says simply, and Jonny nods like he understands. He has no clue, really. He doesn’t know what it’s like to beg for money on a street corner so his little brother can eat lunch at school, he’s never had to steal from the till at his job to keep the heat on for the winter. Jonny's had his mom and his dad and his brother for his whole life, and Brent doesn’t begrudge him that -- he wouldn’t wish that kind of abandonment on anyone, even his worst enemy. Still, Jonny’s sympathetic eyes make him want to punch something, and he clenches his jaw, moving around Jonny to get to his car.

“Brent, wait,” Jonny calls, and Brent slows, his back to Jonny. He hears Jonny’s footsteps on the gravel behind him, and when Jonny stops, Brent can feel the heat of his body. “I just-- I wanted to say goodbye.”

Brent swallows the lump in his throat and turns around, struggling to keep his face blank of any emotion. He didn’t expect to be so overwhelmed by Jonny’s reappearance in his life, and yet here he is, heart pounding in his chest and Jonny’s gaze locked on his.

Jonny’s mouth twitches, and Brent can see the hesitation in his eyes before he closes the space between them and pulls Brent into a loose hug. Brent exhales sharply, the breath punched out of him, and after a brief moment of panic, he can’t help his arms from flying around Jonny’s waist, his hands fisting in the back of Jonny’s shirt, holding him in a fierce embrace. Jonny’s arms tighten around him in turn, and Brent turns his face, burying it Jonny’s neck. He smells like he’s fresh from the shower, warm and clean and so _Jonny_ that Brent has to pull away before he does something he’s going to regret.

He clears his throat and puts some space between them, ignoring the way Jonny’s looking at him. “Headed out today then?” he asks, and Jonny nods, his hands tucked in the pocket of the hoodie he’s wearing. 

“It was really good to see you,” Jonny says softly, and that part of Brent that hates himself stirs, reminding him of everything he’s done wrong in his life. Walking away from Jonny is near the top of the list. “I, uh,” Jonny goes on, and then he’s pulling something from his pocket, a piece of paper that he folds in quarters and presses into Brent’s clammy palm. He folds his fingers over Brent’s until his hand is in a fist and squeezes tight.

“If you ever need anything,” Jonny says, his hand still closed around Brent’s. “ _Anything_ , Brent.” He hugs him again, quickly this time, before jogging the short distance between their houses and disappearing inside. 

When he unfolds the paper, he sees a Los Angeles address scribbled above a phone number. He knows he doesn’t deserve Jonny’s loyalty, but he folds the paper back up, tucks it in his wallet, and keeps it anyway.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Brent pulls the familiar piece of paper from his otherwise empty wallet. It's fraying at the edges, so thin and worn it's almost see-through, and the blue ink is smudged to the point where it's nearly illegible. (Not that it would matter. Brent's got the address memorized.)

He'd hitched half the night to get here-- a guy in Vegas drove him an hour into the desert before tossing him out when Brent refused to suck him off; a trucker with a thick beard yellowed by nicotine got him to the California border without speaking as much as a single word to him the entire time; a platinum blonde with dead eyes and ashy skin picked him up near a gas station, claiming he reminded her of her dead brother.

And now here he is, standing in front of an apartment building on some numbered street in LA, his dingy t-shirt clinging to his sweaty skin and his days-unwashed hair slicked back out of his face. He tucks the piece of paper back into his wallet and crosses the street. 

The building's secure, because of course it is - Jonny’s got a real job that pays him real money, and he lives in a nice place on a nice street in Los Angeles. The locks are meant to keep people like Brent out, but Brent's got plenty of experience getting into places he doesn't belong. It's as easy as calling six apartments in a row, all with one press of his hand against the speaker, and waiting for someone to buzz him in without even questioning it.

The number nineteen hangs a little crookedly on the door, two dull brass digits on a plain white surface, the smallest of peepholes hidden between them. Brent's stomach rolls anxiously and he takes a breath before raising a shaking hand to the door and rapping his knuckles against it.

He waits a beat, and then two. Then three, and four, and five, before knocking again.

He should leave. He should forget he was ever here, get rid of that damn shred of paper once and for all. He didn’t deserve it, anyway, should never have put it in his wallet in the first place. Certainly shouldn’t have held on to his all this time. He doesn’t even know if Jonny still lives here. 

He slides to the carpet, his back to the door, and waits.

And waits, and waits.

He doesn't know how long it's been. He'd dozed off at some point, his chin tucked against his chest. But he thinks someone is saying his name, and he opens his eyes, lifts his head.

"Brent?" comes the voice again, and yes, Brent thinks, _yeah,_ Jonny, it's me.

Brent presses his fingertips into his eyes, rubs in small circles to get rid of the grit behind his eyelids. “Hey, Jon,” he says, and clears his throat. It’s dry and too tight, and he can’t remember when he last drank anything. 

“What the fuck --”

“How’ve you been?” Brent interrupts, getting to his feet. He wipes his palms on his thighs and finally looks at Jonny’s face. 

He probably deserves it, he thinks, when Jonny’s fist connects with his jaw.

It’s only different from the first time Jonny hit him because there’s more power behind it. The intent is the same, and the look in Jonny’s eyes right now matches the one he had when he was eleven and punched Brent in the gut on the playground. He’d been picking on Jonny’s little brother Davey, poking at his hair and stealing his baseball, playing keepaway with his friends, when Jonny came stalking across the pavement, hands balled into fists as his sides.

“Leave my brother alone,” he said through clenched teeth, and Brent grinned at him meanly.

“What are you gonna do about it?” he asked, and Jonny puffed his cheeks out and took a step forward. He held both hands out and shoved Brent as hard as he could, ignoring Davey’s pleas for him to stop. Brent stumbled backward but regained his footing quickly, and when Jonny took another step forward, he sneered. “You don’t wanna do that, Jonny,” he said, when Jonny pulled his fist back.

He let out a soft “oompf” when Jonny’s fist connected with his stomach, clutching his ribs as the wind rushed out of him. Jonny straightened and squared his shoulders, his cheeks red and his eyes shining. 

“Leave my brother alone,” he repeated, and since it took guts, Brent nodded, waving Jonny off. 

Now, so many years later, Jonny stands in front of him all grown up, his cheeks red and his eyes shining just like they were that day.

Brent’s jaw aches, and Jonny’s shoulders slump. 

He’s more than a little relieved when Jonny brushes past him and unlocks the door.

**

“Thanks,” Brent says softly, taking the bottle of water Jonny’s holding out. He unscrews the cap and takes a long drink, savoring the way it wets his throat. His mouth feels like the desert, and he finishes the bottle in just a few long swallows. He pulls it from his mouth with a gasp and wipes the back of his hand over his lips. 

Jonny sits down across from him and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. The knuckles on one of his hands are swelling from the punch he threw. “You look like shit,” he says, honest as always, and Brent barks out a surprised laugh. He’s right, though. He caught a glimpse of himself in Jonny’s bathroom mirror, and it’s not pretty. The circles under his eyes are dark and deep, his beard thick and unruly. There’s dirt under his fingernails, and he smells like he hasn’t showered in a week. 

It’s not the worst he’s ever looked, but it’s close. 

“Hi, Jonny, it’s good to see you too,” Brent replies, and he attempts a smile that Jonny doesn’t return.

He shifts on Jonny’s expensive couch and realizes, belatedly, that he’s been wearing the same clothes for four days and should probably have thrown a blanket down or something. He bites his lower lip and stares at the spread of magazines on Jonny’s coffee table.

“I’m sorry,” he says, picking at a loose thread at the hem of his shirt. “I’ve been-- things have been--” He can’t finish. He doesn’t want Jonny to know how bad things have gotten. How four days ago, he woke up on the dingy bathroom floor of some shitty motel room, his eyes bloodshot and his ribs sore from spending the night before throwing up the entirety of what he’d put in his body that day. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, less for comfort and more to hide the track marks fading on his left arm. The shooting-up is a recent thing, introduced to him by a guy he met along the way, just another guy in a long string of bad decisions and stupid mistakes, running away from the home that never really was one anyway.

It’s the story of Brent’s life, and Jonny should know that by now. There have been enough late-night phone calls and rambling voicemails in the past two years from Jonny to know that things never got any easier on Brent’s side of the world. “Come to California,” Jonny said more than once, and Brent had only ever hung up and promised himself he wasn’t going to call again.

Jonny studies him for a long time, until Brent rolls his eyes and pushes himself up from the couch. “Look, forget it, I can find somewhere else to go.”

“No,” Jonny says quickly, getting to his feet. “No, that’s not-- “ he trails off, his eyes catching on Brent’s arm. Brent pulls it in protectively, shielding it from view. “Why are you here, Brent?”

Brent swallows, feels the back of his neck go hot. He shrugs, nonchalant, and meets Jonny’s eyes. “I was in the neighborhood.”

**

Brent wakes up on Jonny’s couch fourteen hours later. There’s a blanket slung over his waist, tangled up between his feet, and the shirt he’s wearing is a size too small. 

It smells like Jonny. Brent's not sure if it's a comfort or a curse.

He stretches, ignores the nagging ache in the line of his shoulders, and sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It’s early, he can tell by the way the light is just starting to fill Jonny’s living room, but he can hear the shower running, which means Jonny’s up.

They’d talked for exactly fifteen minutes the night before, all that Brent would allow before shutting down, shutting Jonny out. 

Jonny didn’t push. He just offered Brent a clean shirt and a place to sleep, then disappeared behind his bedroom door and left Brent alone in the screaming quiet of the apartment. Brent should have told him he couldn’t be trusted. He should have reminded Jonny of the things he’d done, of all the things he’d taken without a second thought. 

Instead, he pulled a pillow over his face and tried to drown out the sound of his own voice in his head.

The shower goes quiet, and Brent’s stomach turns. He knows Jonny’s not going to let him off the hook forever, but he’s hoping he has a little more time to get his head clear before telling Jonny everything he wants to know.

Jonny stops in his tracks when he comes into the living room and realizes Brent’s awake. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know if you’d, uh…” he trails off, and Brent smirks.

“If I’d still be here?”

Jonny shrugs and walks through the living room to the kitchen. “You never were any good at hanging around,” he says.

Brent shakes his head and stands up, retreating to the bathroom and locking himself in.

**

Jonny’s sitting on the couch, his laptop perched on his knees, when Brent emerges thirty minutes later. A hot shower made him feel only slightly better, but he doesn’t stink anymore, and that in itself does wonders for his mood.

He’d had no choice but to pull on his dirty jeans again, but he skipped the underwear and shirt, and he stops in front of Jonny with them tucked under his arm. 

Jonny doesn’t look up.

“Do you have laundry in here?” Brent asks, and Jonny nods, his fingers skimming over his keyboard. He already knows the answer -- Jonny’s place is pretty posh, and Brent’s eyes have caught on more than one thing that could bring him a good amount of cash at a decent pawn shop -- but he needed to ask anyway.

“Can I --”

“Detergent is on top of the washer. Help yourself,” Jonny says. He still doesn’t look up.

Brent hovers for a moment longer, then retreats to the closet where Jonny’s washer and dryer are tucked away. When he returns, Jonny’s laptop bag is slung across his body, and he’s fidgeting anxiously. 

“I have to go to work,” he says, and oh, Brent thinks. That explains the tension. Jonny’s worried about leaving Brent alone at his place.

It’s a legitimate concern. Brent can’t blame him.

“You want me out?” Brent asks, folding his arms across his chest. “I can go. My shirt’s wet now,” he says, aiming a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the laundry, “but when it’s dry.”

Jonny hesitates before answering. “No. No, you can -- it’s fine, you can stay. There’s food in the fridge, if you’re hungry. I’ll be back later.”

He stops with his hand on the doorknob and looks at Brent over his shoulder. Brent meets his gaze and raises an eyebrow in question.

“If you’re not here,” Jonny says. “When I get back, I mean. Uh. Take care. Of yourself.”

“Always do, Jon,” Brent says. 

Jonny looks like he wants to say something, and Brent clenches his jaw, daring him.

The door closes behind him with a quiet click, and Brent’s all alone.

**

Jonny’s been gone exactly one hour when Brent starts to sweat.

It starts at the nape of his neck, a wet heat just underneath the curls at his hairline. He palms the skin there, lets out a slow breath and stares at the ceiling. He swipes the back of his hand over his forehead, beads of moisture forming at his temples. There’s a slight tremble in his hands, and he suddenly, desperately needs a drink of water. A bottle of pills falls to the floor with a clatter when he reaches for a glass, and Brent drops to his knees in an instant to snatch it from the floor. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s breathing until he hears it in his own ears, his heart thudding loudly to the beat.

It’s only ibuprofen, and Brent pinches the bridge of his nose, struggling to get a grip on himself. 

He gulps the water down, breathes out, and pushes off the counter, on a mission.

He has no idea what he’s looking for as he rummages through Jonny’s things. Jonny doesn’t do drugs, Jonny’s _never_ done drugs, there’s nothing here that can quell the craving, burning hot in his blood. Maybe he just needs something to do with his hands, he thinks. Something to keep them from shaking, anything but sticking a needle in his arm or swallowing a handful of pills.

He’s digging through Jonny’s bedside table when his knuckles brush against worn leather. He closes his fingers around it and when he opens them, he finds the wrist cuff he thought he lost the night he left Jonny standing at the end of his driveway when they were just a couple of stupid kids. 

His heart rate kicks up again, and he closes his fingers around the leather reflexively. He can’t believe Jonny has it, that he’s kept it this long, that he hides it in plain sight in a drawer next to his bed. He turns it over in his hand and flashes back to that night, Jonny spread out on the hood of his car, panting beneath him. “I love you,” he’d said. “Brent, I love you,” and Brent has to swallow the lump of tears building in his throat. 

Jonny’s been the only constant in Brent’s life since he was ten years old and Jonny's family moved in next door, and neither time nor distance had changed that. He’d proven time and time again that he’d be there for Brent no matter what -- had even sent Brent money when he was desperate, on the run from his life back home and out of cash to survive it -- and all Brent had done in return was let him down. Even now, when Jonny’d let him in his place, given him somewhere to sleep, Brent’s mind was on the expensive paintings hanging on Jonny’s wall, the shelf of electronics and the fancy watch lying on his dresser. It would be easy to snatch it and run, get some quick cash and move on to the next meaningless town, ignore the fact that the more he ran, the more he longed to stand still.

Instead, he tucks the wrist cuff into his bag and lets a new wave of guilt wash over him. 

**

Brent’s dozing on the couch when he hears the click of Jonny’s keys in the door. 

“Hey,” he says, and Brent can tell by the look on his face that Jonny wasn’t expecting to see him again. “You’re still here.” He looks over his shoulder and then back to Brent, and the sudden flush on his cheeks makes Brent’s chest tighten. “Uh,” Jonny says, and Brent hears the distinct sound of another voice.

“Everything okay?” the voice says, and Brent stiffens, raising an eyebrow at Jonny. 

“Yeah, Jon,” he says. “Everything okay?”

Jonny hesitates in the doorway before he finally comes in the apartment. He’s chewing his lower lip, and he lifts the strap of his laptop bag up and over his head, avoiding Brent’s eyes. A guy follows behind him, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair falling into his eyes. 

_” They looked liked you and they dressed like you and they_ smiled _like you_ ”, Brent remembers Jonny saying, and then Jonny’s clearing his throat, shifting from one foot to the other.

”This is James,” he says. “Uh. My, uh --”

“His boyfriend,” James finishes, and holds out a hand to Brent. Brent doesn’t take it. He doesn’t even look at James, just stares at Jonny, who’s avoiding eye contact with both of them. It’s fine, Brent thinks, that Jonny has a boyfriend. It’s maybe a little bit of a shock, but Brent can handle it. It’s not like he and Jonny will ever be together -- they had one night seven years ago, it was never going to be a love story -- but still, Brent feels a little stick to his stomach. 

He stands up. “Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t know. Thanks for letting me crash, Jon.” He grabs his bag and moves to leave, but Jonny stops him with a hand on his arm. He’s still not meeting his eyes.

“You don’t have to go,” he says quietly. “I don’t -- “ he blows out a breath and finally looks at Brent. “I don’t want you to go.”

James is staring at him, clear judgement in his eyes, and it’s been a long time since Brent had the urge to knock someone out. He should go. He should get out of Jonny’s life before he ruins everything for him.

“Cool,” he says instead, and drops his bag at his feet. “What’s for dinner?”

He swears the corners of Jonny’s mouth twitch, but he looks away before he can decide, and James is right there anyway, a hand on the small of Jonny’s back as his lips brush Jonny’s cheek. “Lets talk,” he mumbles in Jonny’s ear, and leads him down the hall, glancing at Brent over his shoulder like a warning.

He doesn’t try very hard not to listen, and he can make out Jonny’s voice first, “friends for a long time” and “I’m not kicking him out. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” is what he thinks he hears, in a voice that’s not Jonny’s, and it’s quiet after that. His chest tightens again when he thinks about the reason for the silence. 

They retreat from the bedroom an hour later, and Jonny’s hair isn’t laying the same way it was when he got home. James makes a show of kissing him goodbye before leaving, and Jonny’s cheeks are red when he closes the door. He’s staring at the floor and rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit that Brent recognizes easily. “So that was James,” he says.

“Yeah,” Brent says. “He seems great.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm, and when Jonny does finally look at him, it’s with angry eyes.

“What right do you have to judge my relationship?” he snaps. “You don’t even _know_ me anymore, Brent. I haven’t seen you for three fucking years, and you just show up on on my doorstep like nothing’s changed!”

He’s right, Brent knows it. He says as much, stares at his hands.

Jonny sighs and sits down next to him on the couch, just enough space between them that they’re not touching at all. It reminds Brent of so many times before, when they were young, when he was so tired, and so angry, and at the end of his rope with the way his life was headed, and Jonny would just sit with him, a reassuring presence at his side. 

“Why are you here, Brent?” Jonny asks, not for the first time since Brent’s shown up. 

Brent wrings his hands, blows out a breath, and turns his head to look at Jonny. “I’ve been running for too long, Jon,” he says quietly. “I just -- wanted to come home.”

Jonny blinks at him, his mouth parted like he can’t believe what he just heard. Still, he scoots closer, his shoulder pressed to Brent’s, and Brent just breathes and breathes.

\--

Two weeks later, Brent is still in California living on Jonny’s couch. There aren’t any expectations, and half the time Jonny looks at Brent like he’s going to disappear into thin air, but things are good. Brent feels grounded like he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

He’s going a little stir-crazy, though, a nervous energy buzzing just below the surface, and one morning after Jonny heads out of work, he grabs the small wad of cash he has stashed for emergencies and lets himself out of the apartment, leaving the door unlocked behind him. He’d be back before Jonny, anyway, and getting in the front door without a key was never a problem.

He wanders the streets aimlessly, enjoying the sun on his face, until he finds himself in an area of town that he feels comfortable. There’s none of the richness of Jonny’s neighborhood, just streets lined with buildings that are covered in graffiti, and he makes eye contact with a guy who nods towards a back alley. He thinks about Jonny, and about Jonny and James, and follows.

He buys a small bag of weed to keep up appearances, and they smoke up together, their backs against the cool brick of the building behind them. They make small talk, and Brent learns that Frank is a lot like him -- he never stays in one place for too long.

“What are _you_ running from?” he asks, and Brent snorts a laugh, his head falling back against the building with a thud. He wonders, sometimes, what the real answer to that question is. He knows he’s running from home, from the memories of a father who never wanted him and a mother who loved him, but had to spend too much time working to show it. He’s running from having to grow up too quickly, from a lost childhood, and always, always from the one person who ever made him feel like he was worth more than any of that. 

When Frank reaches over and palms Brent’s dick through his jeans, Brent doesn’t stop him. He closes his eyes when Frank drops to his knees, rough hands working his belt open, and runs his hands through Frank’s hair, tightening his grip when he comes down his throat. He doesn’t open his eyes until Frank’s tucked him back into his pants, and when he does, he doesn’t look at him.

They smoke up again after he’s jerked Frank off through his pants, and he knows too much time has passed since he left the apartment. “Don’t be a stranger,” Frank calls after him with a wink, and Brent tucks the baggie of pills Frank pressed into his palm into his pocket and knows he’ll be back for more.

**

“Where have you been?” Jonny asks, getting to his feet when Brent finally walks in the door. He looks more than a little relieved, and Brent pushes through the familiar flush of guilt and shrugs his shoulders. 

“Just had to get out for awhile,” he answers, and James scoffs from his spot on the couch.

“Smells like you’ve been getting into some trouble,” he says, and the tone in his voice makes something in Brent snap, a rush of anger bubbling to the surface. He moves past Jonny to stand in front of James, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. 

“You got something to say to me, asshole?” he snarls, and James gets to his feet, right up in Brent’s space. They’re nearly the same height, but Brent knows he could take James down if he wanted to.

“How long you gonna freeload off my boyfriend?” James snaps, but before Brent can answer, Jonny’s between them, mumbling something that sounds like “Knock it off, you guys.” James shoves at Jonny to get him out of the way, and Jonny stumbles, knocking his knee against the coffee table. 

Jonny swears under his breath, and Brent flashes back to high school, the time some guy got a little too close to Jonny at a party he shouldn’t have been at in the first place. He’d followed Brent there, wanted to hang out with him, and this sleazeball had him cornered, his back to the wall, one hand palming Jonny’s hip. Jonny chewed his lip, his eyes darting back on forth, and when Brent finally caught his gaze, something in him snapped.

“Get the fuck off him,” he growled, grabbing the guy by the back of the shirt and hauling him away from Jonny. 

The guy laughed bitterly and sneered at Brent. “What’s the matter, Seabrook? Don’t want anyone else all over your fresh meat?” 

The guy left the party with a bloodied face, Brent left with a swollen hand, and Jonny’s eyes went wide when he backed away and hurried out the door, not looking back. 

He’s watching with those same eyes now, when Brent’s holding James by the collar of his shirt, shaking him. “You touch him like that again, I swear to god --”

Jonny’s staring at him, at the place where he’s got his hands fisted in James’ shirt, and Brent loosens his grip immediately, taking a step back. “Sorry,” he mutters, and then looks at Jonny. “I’m sorry. I’ll -- fuck, I’m sorry.” He pushes past James and takes long strides down the hallway, ducking into the bathroom and locking the door behind him.

**

“Brent?” Jonny’s voice drifts through the door some time later, muffled, and he knocks lightly. The doorknob jiggles, and Brent runs both hands through his hair, exhaling a shaky breath. 

When he opens the door, Jonny’s standing there with both hands in his back pockets. “We should talk,” he says quietly. “I’ll make dinner.” He makes a move to walk away, but stops and turns over his shoulder. “He’s gone. If that matters.”

It shouldn’t matter, Brent tells himself. He has no right to hate anyone who makes Jonny happy, and yet he finds himself glad that Jonny sent James away. It feels like he’s taking sides, and Brent’s side just won.

Dinner is pasta salad and buttered bread, and they eat in silence, the occasional clink of silverware against plates the only sound between them. Jonny takes a long drink from his glass and touches his napkin to his mouth.

“If you're gonna stay here, you can’t get high anymore,” he says suddenly, and it’s the first time since Brent showed up on his doorstep that Jonny’s mentioned anything about drugs. “I’m not gonna sit around and watch you get fucked up like that. You wanna live your life like that, fine, but not here.”

“It’s not like that,” Brent tells him, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, it _was_. I was doing a lot of shit that I shouldn’t have been doing. But, uh. Not now. Not since I’ve been here.”

“Except for today,” Jonny says, eyes locked on Brent’s face. Brent nods and clears his throat.

“I didn’t go looking for it,” he says, and it’s the truth, sort of. “I just needed to get _out_ , y’know? I just--“

Jonny nods, then, looks like he’s going to reach across the table, but he doesn’t. Instead, he straightens the salt shaker and puts his hands back in his lap. It feels strange, having this conversation like no time has passed between them, like nothing has changed. But Brent knows that even the short time he’s spent under Jonny’s roof has changed him, and he’d do anything not to let Jonny down again. 

“No more,” Brent says. “I promise, Jon.”

Jonny shouldn’t trust him. He’s broken a lot of promises in his lifetime, even to the few people that have ever mattered to him. Even to Jonny.

“Good,” Jonny says, and pushes back from the table. Just like that, the conversation is over. “C’mon,” he says. “You can help me with the dishes.”

**

Brent lets himself into Jonny’s apartment with the key Jonny had made for him last week. He’s balancing a bag of groceries on one hip and carrying a case of soda, and he nearly drops everything on the floor when he sees Jonny crouched down next to the couch, staring at a small baggie in his hand.

A pit opens in Brent’s stomach, threatens to swallow him whole. He considers bolting, but Jonny’s looking over his shoulder now, his lips a tight, thin line and his eyes dark and angry. He gets to his feet, and Brent stands stock still, sweat beading at his temples, dampening his hairline.

He reacts the only way he knows how. “What the fuck, Jonny?” he sneers. “You going through my stuff now?” Brent knows where the baggie came from. He knows it was tucked at the bottom of his duffle, and he knows he zipped it closed before he left for the market. 

He’s still clutching the groceries to his side.

Jonny laughs bitterly. “Oh, that’s how you’re going to play it then? Blame _me_? Could you be any more predictable, Brent?” 

Brent scowls and swallows around the tight lump in his throat. He stalks into the kitchen and drops the bag. Jonny follows him, cages him in against the counter, and shakes the baggie in his face.

“You lied to me,” he says, his voice laced with something Brent can’t quite pinpoint. “You said --”

“I said I wasn’t using anymore,” Brent snaps. “I told you --”

“Then what the fuck is this, huh?” Jonny bites. “I let you into my place, Brent, I let you stay here on the condition that you would stop _doing this shit_ , and I find _this_ between the cushions?”

Brent blinks at him, relief washing over him like a wave. 

The drugs aren’t his. The baggie is full of pills, and that’s not -- the drugs aren’t _his_. 

“Those aren’t mine,” Brent says, and his throat feels dry. “They’re _not_ ,” he insists, shoving past Jonny and ignoring the disbelieving look in his eye. “They must be Frank’s,” he mumbles, scrubbing his hands over his face. God, he should have known better, he should never have -- “He was here the other day, they must have fallen out or something.”

Jonny’s face clouds, and he narrows his eyes. “You let that guy in my apartment?” It’s not a secret that Brent’s been hanging around Frank and his buddies a lot lately. He can’t stand sitting in Jonny’s apartment alone all day, torn between feeling completely comfortable and completely out of place. He scoffs, folding his arms over his chest protectively. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed guests.” 

“Not people like _that_ ,” Jonny snaps, and Brent clenches his fists at his sides. 

“People like _what,_ Jonny? People like _me_? Drug users? Thieves? Liars?"

“You’re not --” 

“Yeah, Jon. Yeah, I really fucking am. I’m all of those things, and you fucking know it.” 

Jonny’s shoulders slump as he leans back against the counter. Brent stares at him, his hands clenched in fists at his sides, and waits. “You swear they’re not yours?” Jonny asks after a long moment, his gaze trained on the floor. 

“I swear, Jon,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t bring that shit in your place.” The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, and he swallows the guilt, letting it churn in his stomach. 

Jonny eyes him quickly before nodding, shoving the baggie in his pocket and turning to unload the groceries. 

“I’m gonna shower,” Brent says, grabbing his bag on the way through the living room. He locks the bathroom door behind him and leans on the sink, the porcelain cool under his sweaty palms. He stares at himself in the mirror -- his too-long hair hangs over his forehead, greasy when he slicks it back, and the dark circles under his eyes are a reminder that he hasn’t slept in days. 

He wants to throw up. 

Instead, he digs through his bag until he finds what he’s looking for, closing his eyes before tossing it in the toilet and flushing it away. 

** 

After a month, Brent’s still living on Jonny’s couch. James doesn’t come around anymore, and Brent hasn’t asked, but he’s pretty sure that’s over. He’s oddly smug about it, despite the fact that he knows he can never let himself have what he’s wanted all along, since all those years ago when Jonny admitted his feelings. It’s not like Jonny’s offering, he tells himself, even if he does stare at Brent a little too long sometimes, let his hand brush Brent’s when they’re sitting on the couch watching TV. 

“What made you come here?” Jonny asks him late one night, when they’re walking home from dinner at one of Jonny’s favorite spots. Brent’s done his best to keep food in the fridge, has used what’s left of the little money he showed up with to pay his way these past few weeks, but Jonny insisted on treating tonight, and he gave Brent a look that told him there was no way he was winning this argument. 

He knew the question was coming. Jonny’s asked before, and Brent always gave him a simple answer, barely scratching the surface. He’d expected Jonny to want to know the whole story eventually. He shrugs one shoulder and sticks his hands in his pockets, slowing his pace so they’re barely strolling under the dim streetlights. “Things got bad,” he says, and then clears his throat. “I did some things I’m not proud of, and I woke up one morning on the floor of some shitty motel-room bathroom, and I just -- I couldn’t do it anymore.” 

While Jonny was in California making a life for himself, Brent was moving from city to city, shitty job to shitty job. He’d stay long enough to tuck away some money, and then he’d move on to the next before he could get too attached (or let anyone get too attached to him.) 

They were from completely different worlds, he and Jonny -- always had been -- but somehow, here they were. Jonny always told Brent that they needed one another -- that even though they were different, they fit together like the last two pieces of a thousand-piece puzzle. Brent never believed him, and yet Jonny is the one he’d run back to. Brent’s spent a lot of time trying not to think about what that means. 

“I’m sorry,” he goes on, and Jonny stops walking, turns to Brent and frowns. “For all of it, Jon. I’m sorry for the way I’ve always treated you, I just--” 

“Hey,” Jonny says, cutting him off. “Don’t do that. You’ve always been there for me, man, don’t try to act like it’s been all give on my end.” 

Brent makes a face, and Jonny shoves at his shoulder, laughing a little. “I’m serious, you asshole. Yeah, fine, these past few years you’ve been MIA, but I know if I’d needed you, you’d have done whatever you could.” 

Brent thinks back to high school, how he and Jonny stayed friends even after he dropped out. He remembers the night Jonny got into an accident on the way home from soccer practice, how he’d run his car into a tree and called Brent in a panic. “My parents are going to kill me, I don’t know what to do!” he said, and Brent told him to take a deep breath and count to ten. Once he’d calmed down, Brent got Jonny to tell him where he was, and it took him less than five minutes to jog the few blocks and find the front end of Jonny’s car dented in, smoke hissing from the engine. 

Jonny sat behind the wheel, his head in his hands, and for a brief moment, Brent’s was afraid Jonny was really hurt. Maybe he’d passed out, or hit his head, or -- 

“You came,” Jonny said, and Brent blinked, clearing his throat. 

“Get out of the car,” Brent said, and Jonny opened the door, getting to his feet on shaky legs. “You okay?” 

Jonny nodded, letting out a whoosh of breath. “Just freaked out,” he admitted. Brent couldn’t help but notice that his hands were shaking, and he took a step closer, closing his fingers around Jonny’s wrist. 

"Don’t worry about your parents,” he said, and Jonny’s eyes widened. 

“But they’re --” 

“They’re going to be really pissed at me when they find out I drove your car into a tree, yeah, but I can handle it. What’s my mom going to do, ground me? Not like it matters.” 

“But you didn’t --” 

“Yeah, I did,” Brent said firmly. “I borrowed your car after school, remember? I went to pick you up from practice and wasn’t paying attention and had to swerve to miss a dog.” Jonny just stared at him, his lips parted, until Brent shook him a little and pushed at his shoulder. “Remember?” 

Jonny nodded and then pulled Brent into a quick, unexpected hug. “Thank you,” he mumbled into Brent’s shoulder, and Brent patted his back awkwardly before extracting himself from Jonny’s arms. 

His mom was pissed, and Jonny’s parents lectured Jonny for letting anyone borrow his car, but in the end, Jonny wasn’t in any trouble, so whatever Brent had to to do make up for it was worth it. 

Jonny’s watching him, the slightest smile turning up the corners of his mouth, and Brent’s hit with the sudden realization that he’d do anything for Jonny -- back then, and even now. It doesn’t excuse the way he acted that night, or how he ignored Jonny’s calls and acted like there was nothing between them. But it’s something. It’s a step in the right direction, Brent thinks, to admit it to himself. 

“That’s what friends are for,” Brent says, and it’s so cheesy, he knows it is, but Jonny’s smiling at him like he hung the moon, and when Brent smiles back at him, the walls around his heart start to crack. 

They’re standing under a streetlight, and it’s so late that they’re the only ones around. Jonny’s eyes drop to Brent’s mouth, and Brent’s heart hammers in his chest when Jonny takes a step closer, right into his space. “Brent,” he says softly, and Brent has to swallow a few times around the nervous lump in his throat. He wants to say something, to tell Jonny how he feels, how he’s felt all along, but the words are stuck, pushed down further the closer Jonny gets. 

If he tilted his head just so, leaned in a fraction of an inch, their mouths would be touching. Brent can feels Jonny’s breath on his face, can feel the heat radiating off Jonny’s body, and when Jonny moves in, Brent ducks his head, taking the smallest of steps back. He doesn’t miss the way Jonny’s shoulders slump, or the way he turns his head away. “Jon,” he says, and he knows it sounds like an apology. 

“It’s okay,” Jonny says, but he doesn’t look at Brent when he says it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“No, it’s not --” 

“Don’t, okay?” Jonny says quietly. “Lets just go home.” 

He falls into step behind Jonny and tries not to think about how he might have just ruined everything again. 

** 

It all comes to a head a week later, when Brent’s startled from a sound sleep by Jonny shoving roughly at his shoulder. He blinks himself awake and rubs his eyes, frowning at Jonny, who’s standing over him with his arms folded across his chest. “What the fuck?” Brent mumbles, and Jonny nods at the mess of takeout containers that litter the coffee table. 

_“What the fuck _you_!” Jonny bites. “Jesus, Brent, you sit around here all day_ , you can’t at least pick up your fucking mess?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Brent chides. “I didn’t realize you were the clean police.”

“Fuck off,” Jonny says. He runs his hands through his hair as Brent starts stacking the empty containers. He brushes past Jonny on his way to the kitchen, and Jonny follows him, still glaring.

“There,” Brent says after he tosses the containers in the trash. “Happy?”

“You can’t just keep living on my couch!” Jonny shouts, and it’s so sudden that Brent’s actually taken aback. His stomach clenches, and he balls his hands into fists. “It’s been over a month, Brent, jesus, _do_ something with yourself! Get a job! Figure it out!”

Brent just stares at him. “I’ll be out by morning,” he says flatly, and Jonny’s face falls. 

“That’s not --” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Brent says, sidestepping Jonny on his way back into the living room. “You’re right. I can’t just keep living here. This was never gonna be forever.”

“Brent,” Jonny says, pleading, and Brent turns over his shoulder just in time for Jonny to step in close. Brent sucks in a breath when Jonny’s hands land on his hips, and when Jonny hooks his chin over his shoulder, Brent’s eyes fall closed. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I just -- you’re so much better than this, I _know_ you are, if you’d just --”

“Just what, Jon? I’m a high school dropout. I can’t hold down a job. All I know how to do is run.”

Jonny breathes in slowly, then exhales. “Let me help,” he whispers, his breath warm on Brent’s ear. Brent laughs softly, sadly, and shakes his head. 

“What are you gonna do, Jonny? Wave a magic wand, erase all the bad shit that’s happened? It doesn’t work like that.”

“None of that matters,” Jonny says, and he’s flush against Brent’s back now, his voice low and his grip tight on Brent’s hips. “All that matters is this. Now. Gotta look forward, not back.” He turns his head, and when his lips brush Brent’s neck, Brent shivers. 

“Jonny,” is all he can manage, and then Jonny’s arms are around him, holding him tight. 

“I don’t want you to go,” Jonny says, and it sounds so much like Jonny at eighteen that Brent makes a pained sound. _Just for the summer, Brent_ , _please_ plays over in his head. 

“Don’t,” he says, pulling away from Jonny, and his sigh goes through Brent like a ghost. He hangs his head and rubs at his eyes, exhausted from the whole of it. “I’m going back to bed.” He lays down on the couch on his side, turned away from Jonny, and closes his eyes until Jonny finally walks away.

When morning comes, he slips out the door as quietly as he can. Jonny shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks. Brent saw this coming a mile away.

**

Brent’s leaning into the window of a beat-up Chevy pickup, the same shirt he wore when he showed up on Jonny’s doorstep loose around his ribcage. He shifts from one foot to another and takes a long drag from the cigarette David -- Daniel? he’s not really sure -- is offering.

He looks over his shoulder when he hears someone call his name, and he’s only half-surprised to see Jonny standing there, completely out of place in this part of town in his crisp, clean button-down, with his perfectly manicured nails and his expensive shoes.

“What do you want, Jonny?” Brent calls, and David (Daniel?) cackles.

“I bet I know what he wants,” he says, leering at Brent with a grin. One of his teeth is cracked in half, and when he wipes two fingers under his nose, Brent notices how dirty his hands are. It makes him look at his own self-consciously, and he hands the cigarette back to David to shove his hands in his back pockets.

“Come on, Brent,” Jonny shouts back, frowning when one of the guys huddled against the building mimics him mockingly. His arms are crossed over his chest protectively, and Brent tries to forget how it feels to be wrapped up in them. “Lets go.”

Brent rolls his eyes and pushes off the truck, sauntering towards Jonny with purpose. He adjusts his snapback and stops just short of him, close enough that he can smell Jonny’s cologne but far enough away that Jonny can’t get a hand on him.

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome, man. Don’t you?”

Jonny throws him a pained look, his hands falling to his sides. “Why are you doing this?”

Brent waves a dismissive hand, holding up one finger when David honks the horn. “I was never meant to stay, Jon. I’m a fuckup, remember? Always have been. Dropped out of high school, can’t keep a job. Might as well keep with the trend.” He doesn’t say that his time with Jonny has made him feel like he could change. Like he could do something with his life, like he could _stay_. 

Brent flashes back to the apartment, to the argument, to the way Jonny’d scrubbed his hands over his face and told Brent how sick he was of all of this. _You can’t just keep living on my couch!_ The words ring in Brent’s ears even now, with Jonny standing in front of him, as close to an apology as Brent’s ever going to get. 

“Please don’t do this,” Jonny says quietly, and Brent’s a breath away from taking one step closer, letting Jonny follow through on his promise to fix everything. 

To fix _him_.

David honks the horn again.

Brent takes one last look at Jonny before climbing into the cab of the truck. He watches Jonny disappear in the rearview and tells himself that life goes on.

It always does. 

\--

An hour into the drive, Brent’s digging through his bag when his hand closes around the wrist cuff he stole from Jonny’s drawer when he first got to LA. His stomach swoops when he pulls it out, rubs his thumbs over the faded leather. He looks out the window at the world racing by, and he thinks of Jonny fading from his life. He thinks of Jonny’s smile, of Jonny’s laugh, of Jonny at thirteen putting a hand on Brent’s knee and promising him that everything is going to be ok.

He slips the cuff onto his wrist and tells David to pull over.

**

By the time he gets back to Jonny’s, it’s hours later, and the moon hangs high in the sky. His legs ache from walking, but it’s nothing he’s not used to. He uses his key to let himself into the front of the building, but he feels guilty for still having it, so when he stops in front of number nineteen, he hesitates before knocking lightly. 

When Jonny comes to the door, his hair is sticking up on one side, and his eyes are rimmed red. Brent thinks he might have been crying, and he swallows down the now-familiar guilt that builds in his chest. Jonny stares at him, waiting, and Brent takes a breath. 

“I don’t want to run anymore,” he says quietly, the first time he’s admitted it out loud, and Jonny hesitates for just a beat before wrapping his fingers around Brent’s wrist and pulling him inside. Brent kicks the door closed with his foot and cups Jonny’s face in both hands, kissing him like he should have kissed him the first time around, slow and sweet, his thumbs stroking Jonny’s jaw. Jonny melts into him, his arms winding around Brent and pulling him close, holding him there. “I’m sorry,” Brent says into the kiss, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jonny doesn’t say anything. He just keeps kissing Brent like he was made for it, like he’s been waiting forever. His hands slip under the hem of Brent’s shirt, his fingers cool where they’re splayed out over the dip of Brent’s lower back. They don’t stop kissing when Jonny starts moving backwards, and Brent chases his mouth, lets Jonny lead him down the hallway and into the bedroom, lets Jonny pull his shirt up and off and toss it at their feet.

He steps back, a half-grin on his face when he ducks out of Brent’s reach and strips out of his own shirt. He’s filled out since Brent last saw him this way, his shoulders broad and his chest smooth and muscled. There’s a light trail of hair just below his navel, and Brent would give anything to get his mouth on it.

“Jonny,” Brent says, and his own voice sounds loud to his own ears in the quiet of Jonny’s room. 

“C’mere,” Jonny says, and sits on the edge of the bed, spreading his legs in invitation. Brent steps between them and lets his hands rest on Jonny’s shoulders, his thumbs sliding along the ridges of Jonny’s collarbone. He touches his fingertips to Jonny’s skin, drags them down his chest and back up again, strokes his knuckles along the stubble on Jonny’s jaw. Jonny closes his eyes and turns into the touch, his lips parted as he lets out a long, slow breath. 

Brent tilts Jonny’s chin up and ducks in to kiss him again, biting gently at his lower lip, savoring the small sound Jonny makes when their tongues touch. He cups Jonny’s neck in one big hand, holding him still while he licks into his mouth, kisses him like he’s starving for it.

It’s not far from the truth. He’s always wanted this with Jonny. He just never allowed himself to have it, not for real.

When Jonny finally breaks the kiss, he’s breathing hard, his eyes dark and his lips red. He pushes back from his spot on the bed until his legs aren’t dangling over the side anymore and leans back on his elbows, cocking one knee to the side. Brent’s dick is pressed against his zipper when he straddles Jonny’s hips, one knee snug on either side of Jonny’s thighs. He rocks gently, and Jonny sucks in a breath, arching his back to match Brent’s movement. 

“Is this what you want?” Brent mumbles as they kiss, their mouths meeting over and over, heat building between them. He can feel Jonny’s laughter against his own chest, warm and fond and everything Brent’s been missing all these years.

“Do you even have to ask me that?” Jonny says softly, and he gets a hand on Brent’s shoulder, squeezes lightly until Brent sits back and their eyes meet. “It’s always been you, idiot. Don’t you know that?”

“I don’t deserve you,” Brent says, and Jonny shakes his head, the slightest frown creasing his brow. Brent touches his thumb to Jonny’s forehead, smoothes it over the soft skin until Jonny closes his eyes. 

“I love you anyway,” Jonny says, and just like that, Brent feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. There’s so much he wants to say, so many things he wants to explain, but Jonny’s kissing him again, and none of it seems important anymore. 

It’s not long before the rest of their clothes join their shirts on the floor, and when Jonny moves to roll over onto his belly, it’s so much like the first time that Brent has to close his eyes and take a breath. So much is the same -- Jonny’s mouth on his, Jonny’s hands digging into his shoulders, the breathy way he says Brent’s name. But Brent doesn’t want to remember any of that -- he wants to start from here, like this is the first time. He stops Jonny with a hand on his shoulder, and Jonny frowns when Brent eases him onto his back. 

“What --”

“Shh,” Brent mumbles into Jonny’s neck, sucking lightly at the soft skin behind his ear. “I wanna see you.”

Jonny groans, his fingertips pressing into the sweat-slick skin of Brent’s back. Jonny’s tight and hot around him, and Brent can’t help but stare at the long line of his neck where his head his thrown back, his mouth open just enough that Brent can see the flash of pink when Jonny licks his lips. Brent drags his teeth over Jonny’s throat, whispers “Jonny, Jonny” over and over again.

Jonny comes with Brent’s name on his lips. Brent comes with his heart in his throat.

**

Brent wakes up hours later with his nose pressed to the back of Jonny’s neck and one arm slung over his waist. Jonny’s breathing is slow and even, and when Brent pulls back the covers and gets out of bed, Jonny doesn’t even move. Brent watches him for awhile, the way his nose wrinkles every now and then, how he rubs his face into the pillow and pulls the sheets up to his chin. 

He manages to find his boxers in the pile of clothes next to the bed and tugs them on before making his way to the living room, sitting on the end of the couch with his elbows on his knees. He feels warm all over, still, from the heat of Jonny’s body and from the impact of his words, of the fact that even now, he loves Brent. He can’t help the burst of quiet laughter from his chest as he replays it in his head, the way Jonny looked at him when he said it. He feels giddy, happy in a way he can’t remember feeling since before his dad left, when things were good and they were a family. 

He owes that all to Jonny, and he feels a pang of regret that he’s spent all these years running from the one person who could make him feel like he was worth a damn.

“I know what you’re planning, you know,” comes Jonny’s voice, and Brent startles, looking over his shoulder.

“You do, huh?” Brent asks, trying to keep the smile from his voice. “Tell me then.”

Jonny drops into the spot next to Brent and leans into him. He touches the cuff on Brent’s wrist, and Brent bites the inside of his check.

“I was wondering where this went,” Jonny says softly, and Brent turns in his arms. “I guess you are a thief after all.”

“Why’d you keep it?” Brent asks, and Jonny shrugs, his eyes shining when they meet Brent’s.

“It was all I had left of you.”

Brent swallows hard, and his shoulders slump. “Jonny, I’m so--”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Jonny says. “I meant what I said, back then. That night. I’m glad it was you.”

Brent sighs and gets to his feet, walking over to the window to look out over the city. He leans into Jonny when he moves in behind him, his hands linked over Brent’s belly. “I want you to stay,” Jonny says quietly, and their eyes meet when Brent turns in his arms.

“What good am I, kid? I’ve been living on your couch for a month. I don’t even have any prospects.”

“Maybe I need the distraction.”

Brent laughs and shakes his head, brushing his nose against Jonny’s. “Maybe I don’t want to be one.”

Jonny’s quiet for a long moment, and when he pulls back, his eyes search Brent’s. “What _do_ you want?”

Brent doesn’t hesitate this time. He doesn’t second-guess, and he doesn’t run scared. He touches his lips to Jonny’s. “You,” he says simply, and when Jonny pulls him in close, he doesn’t shy away.

For the first time in a really long time, he’s exactly where he wants to be.


End file.
